F»RIOE 25 OENTS 




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Successful Rural Plays 

A Strong List From Which to Select Your 
Next Play 

FARM FOLKS. A Rural Play in Four Acts, by Arthur 
Lewis Tubes. For five male and six female characters. Time 
of playing, two hours and a half. One simple exterior, two 
easy interior scenes. Costumes, modern. Flora Goodwin, a 
farmer's daughter, is engaged to Philip Burleigh, a young New 
Yorker. Philip's mother wants him to marry a society woman, 
and by falsehoods makes Flora believe Philip does not love her. 
Dave Weston, who wants Flora himself, helps the deception by 
intercepting a letter from Philip to Flora. She agrees to marry 
Dave, but on the eve of their marriage Dave confesses, Philip 
learns the truth, and he and Flora are reunited. It is a simple 
plot, but full of speeches and situations that sway an audience 
alternately to tears and to laughter. 

HOME TIES. A Rural Play in Four Acts, by Arthur 
Lewis Tubes. Characters, four male, five female. Plays two 
hours and a half. Scene, a simple interior — same for all four 
acts. -Costumes, modern. One of the strongest plays Mr. Tubbs 
has written. Martin Winn's wife left him when his daughter 
Ruth was a baby. Harold Vincent, the nephew and adopted son 
of the man who has wronged Martin, makes love to Ruth Winn. 
She is also loved by Len Everett, a prosperous young farmer. 
When Martin discovers who Harold is, he orders him to leave 
Ruth. Harold, who does not love sincerely, yields. Ruth dis- 
covers she loves Len, but thinks she has lost him also. Then 
he comes back, and Ruth finds her happiness. 

THE OLD NEW HAMPSHIRE HOME. A New 

England Drama in Three Acts, by Frank Dumont. For seven 
males and four females. Time, two hours and a half. Costumes, 
modern. A play with a strong heart interest and pathos, yet rich 
in humor. Easy to act and very effective. A rural drama of 
the "Old Homstead" and "Way Down East" type. Two ex- 
terior scenes, one interior, all easy to set. Full of strong sit- 
uations and delightfully humorous passages. The kind of a play 
everj'body understands and likes. 

THE OLD DAIRY HOMESTEAD. A Rural Comedy 
in Three Acts, by Frank Dumont. For five males and four 
females. Time, two hours. Rural costumes. Scenes rural ex- 
terior and interior. An adventurer obtains a large sum of money 
from a farm house through the intimidation of the farmer's 
niece, whose husband he claims to be. Her escapes from the 
wiles of the villain and his female accomplice are both starting^ 
and novel. 

A WHITE MOUNTAIN BOY. A Strong Melodrama in 
¥ive Acts, by Charles Townsend. For seven males and four 
females, and three supers. Time, two hours and twenty minutes. 
One exterior, three interiors. Costumes easy. The hero, a 
country lad, twice saves the life of a banker's daughter, which 
results in their betrothal. A scoundrelly clerk has the banker 
in his powc-r, but the White Mountain boy finds a way to check- 
mate his schemes, saves the banker, and wins the girl. 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



Is Your Name Smith? 

A Comedy in One Act 



By 

EDITH K. DUNTON 

t * 

Author of ' ' The Betty Wales Girls 
and Mr. Kidd 




PHILADELPHIA 
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1921 



F5 3567 
.UTI2.I7 



Copyright 192 i by The Penn Publishing Company 



Is Your Name Smith? @^, p, 571^9 



^ 



Is Your Name Smith ? 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Bob Evans Newlywed 

John Smith Eccentric friend of Boh 

Charles Augustus Smith . Vacuum cleaner salesman 

Joe Smith A plumber 

Michael Angelo Romano, alias Jim Smith, 

An organ grinder 

Mrs. Bob Evans Wife of Bob 

Miss Jones- Smitpi A book agent 

Sadie Pulaski A Polish maid 

Time of Playing. — About one hour. 



SCENE PLOT 

OOOR TO OrHSfi /iOOMS 




Scene. — Sitting-room in the Evans apartment. 



COSTUMES AND CHARACTERISTICS 

Bob Evans and Mrs. Bob Evans. Newly wed and 
very blissful. He is big and gay and casual; she is 
little, very earnest, even soulful, and works for good 
causes. Bob calls her Molly. 

John Smith. The eccentric friend of Bob Evans ; 
so eccentric that he is sometimes perfectly common- 
place. 

Charles Augustus Smith. Checked suit, loud 
waistcoat, and manner to match. Selling vacuum 
cleaners in a motor. 

Miss Jones-Smith. Extremely masculine in dress, 
voice, and manner, selling books for the table and the 
shelves, from camouflaged receptacles, by refined 
methods, and in a coy style. (This part might be 
taken by a man.) 

Joe Smith. A plumber who responds with unbe- 
lievable promptness to a lady*s signal of distress. 

Michael Angelo Romano, alias Jim Smith. An 
organ grinder who is so queer himself that he takes 
other people — even women — quite as a matter of 
course. 

Michael. A monkey, chiefly ornamental. A toy 
monkey can do all the " work " of the part. 

Sadie Pulaski. A Polish maid, generally incom- 
petent. 

[Bob Evans may " double " with Joe Smith.] 



Is Your Name Smith? 



SCENE. — Sitting-room in the Evans Apartment, in 
some city such as New Haven. Outside door and 
window to R. ; center back, door to other rooms; fire- 
place, L. Conventional furnishings (including tele- 
phone) very spick and span, and very cozy. Time. — 
Noon, to-day. 

{Enter Bob Evans in a great hurry, coat on, hat in one 
hand and a letter in the other.) 

Bob {calling excitedly), Molly, I say, Molly! 

{Enter Molly in a big apron, wiping a dish.) 

Molly. What is it, Bob? 

Bob. Letter— special delivery. I met the boy on 
the stairs. It's from my friend, old John Smith. He 
is landing to-day, he says— doesn't mention the boat, or 
tell where he's been. {Reads from letter.) Cordially 
accepts your invitation to come out and spend the night 
and look you over. 

Molly. Bob, is he the one who sent us the rugs— 
the one you said is so queer? 

Bob. The same. Don't you remember asking him 
here? I hope you didn't ask everybody who sent us 
a present. 

Molly. No! No indeed! I only asked the men 
I'd never met, who sent us very scrumptious presents, 
and when you opened them you said, " Good old 
John ! " or " The dear old chap ! " or something like 
that, that sounded as if you were awfully fond of them. 

5 



6 IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 

Besides, I never thought they would come right away — 
before we were settled. 

Bob. John Smith would be sure to do the thing you 
didn't expect. {Rereads letter.) I say, Molly, I'm 
late now for an important appointment. How much 
have I told you about Smith? 

Molly. I don't know. Bob. A lot of funny stories, 
but I've forgotten most of them, I'm afraid. Will he 
be HI:: V to get here before you do? 

Bob. No telling. I'll be back as early as I can, but 
I've got a frightful afternoon ahead of me. Now, 
Molly, listen ; listen hard. A heap depends upon you, 
little girl. You understand Smith's a queer duck, but 
he's done a lot for me and I'm awfully fond of him. 
Now, anybody — anybody who comes to the house this 
afternoon may be Smith. 

Molly. Why, of course. Bob. That's mere common 
sense. But won't he say he's Mr. Smith and that he's 
come to visit us? 

Eo^. Probably he will eventually, if you give him a 
good chance. The fact is, Molly, he's a very queer 
fellow ! 

Molly. You've said that four times. Bob. It's 
getting on my nerves. How is he queer ? Is he crazy ? 
And what do you want me to do about it ? 

Bob. I want you to realize that he's a crank on 
democracy. You must recognize him when he ap- 
pears and treat him white, no matter how he looks — 
how he's dressed, I mean — or what he does. If I come 
home and find that Smith's gone off peeved before I 
get here, I shall feel badly out of luck. 

Molly (stiffly). I can't see that I shall be to blame. 
I'm not responsible for his queerness. 

Bob. Now, Molly, listen. You don't understand. 
This is the way of it : my friend Smith is likely to come 
here this afternoon looking like a tramp, or a sewing- 
machine agent, or a sheep herder, or a Mohammedan 
fakir, or a tin peddler — he has been all of those things, 
and a lot more. I think he would tell you that his 
name was Smith, but if you acted rattled, or annoyed, 



IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 7 

or ashamed, or embarrassed at whatever queer dis- 
guise he happens to appear in, it will be all off between 
you and Smith. He'll bolt, and he may not turn up 
again for years. 

Molly. Gracious, Bob ! I just happened to think— 
there's a committee meeting for our college drive this 
afternoon at three o'clock. What if he comes while 
I'm away ? 

Bob. Don't be away. Cut your meeting, little girl. 
Cut it cold. Stick right around this ranch until I get 
back. 

Molly. The girls will be awfully mad at me ! 
Bob. Never you mind. That drive's for money, 
isn't it ? 

Molly (astonished). Why, yes— of course it is, 
Bob. 

Bob. All right. And your college is named Smith, 
isn't it ? Well, then, I'll bank on my friend Smith to 
pay the college liberally for your taking an afternoon 
off from committee work. Maybe he'd even think you 
were worth a yellow-back. 

Molly (delightedly). Oh, Bob! Do you really 
think he'll give us something ? 

Bob. Sure, if you get a good start with him. Giv- 
ing away his money is one of the best things Smith 
does. 

Molly. How does he look, Bob ? How old is he ? 
How tall is he? What's the color of his hair and his 
eyes? 

Bob. Now you're talking ! Smith's about fifty— he 
was my dad's college chum, you know. Took a shine 
to me when I was a kid, because I shared his taste for 
old clothes and queer adventures. Gee, but w^e had a 
great time that summer I was sixteen and we went 
sheep-herding out in Browne's Park ! 
Molly. How tall is he, Bob? 
Bob. Pretty near six feet, I should say. Hair — oh, 
the usual color. Eyes — oh, nice eyes, rather extra 
sharp. I don't know the color of anybody's eyes but 
yours, Molly. Good-bye, dearest! 



8 IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 

Molly. Good-bye, dear! I'll do my very best to 
make Mr. Smith like me — for your sake, not for the 
" yellow-back." Come back just as early as you can. 

Bob (on the stairs, calls back). You bet I will. 

(Exits.) 

(Molly picks up the dish which she has laid on the 
table, surveys the room, runs her finger along the 
table for dust, wipes it off with a corner of her 
apron, straightens some pillows, exits. Bell rings. 
Silence. Rings again very loudly. Enter Molly 
breathless, without apron, very much frightened. 
Goes to the door. Enter Charles Augustus 
Smith, fat, pompous, loudly dressed, beaming smile. 
Molly has expected something much queerer, but 
upon inspection decides thai Charles Augustus 
Smith is on the whole queer enough to be her hus- 
band's eccentric friend.) 

Molly. Good-afternoon ! 

Charles Augustus. Good-afternoon, Mrs. — er 

Molly (help f idly) . Evans — and you're Mr. Smith ? 

Charles Augustus. Good guess, little one ! 

Molly (taken aback, but, resolved to get the right 
start mentioned by Bob, puts out her hand). I am so 
glad to see you! Bob is coming back just as soon as 
he can. He is awfully busy just now, poor boy. 

Charles Augustus. Fighting the H. C. of L., I 
suppose. Well, as far as I'm concerned, let him fight 
it ! It's you I really wanted to see, Mrs. Evans. 

Molly (shy and embarrassed). Please don't look 
at me so hard, Mr. Smith. Of course, I know I'm not 
half good enough for Bob. Won't you sit down? 
Where is your bag? 

Charles Augustus. E-er — why, out in the car, 
naturally. I say, Mrs. Evans, you certainly keep a 
fellow moving — and guessing. Who told you I was 
coming to see you this afternoon ? 

Molly. Why, Bob told me, of course, Mr. Smith. 

Charles Augustus. The deuce he did! I — er— 



IS YOUR NAME SMITHS 9 

er — never meant him to, Mrs. Evans. What more did 
he tell you? 

Molly (blushing guiltily). Why — oh, nothing, Mr. 
Smith, except that I was to make you feel at home 
until he came. He's very fond of you, you see, and 
very anxious to have you enjoy your first visit to us. 

Charles Augustus. Well, I'll tell the world that 
he's getting his wish to a " t." I've seldom felt as much 
at home as I do at the moment. Just one thing lack- 
ing 

Molly. Is it some luncheon perhaps? We have 
ours rather early 

Charles Augustus. Not luncheon, Mrs. Evans. I 
dine at noon — and I've dined. What I meant was — 
(sententious pause; points to a child's picture on the 
table) where are the kiddies? 

Molly (rising abruptly). Don't you want to see 
how pretty your rugs look, Mr.* Smith — the ones you 
sent us when we were married last month? There is 
one — (points at a rug in front of the fireplace; holds 
open center back door) and there's the other. Of 
course the big one is far too splendid for our little 
dining-room, but that's where we seemed to need it 
most 

Charles Augustus. Gee, Mrs. Evans, I've got an 
awfidly poor memory! Did Bob tell you that, too, 
perhaps ? I certainly never expected to see anything I 
gave to anybody look as elegant as that dining-room 
rug does. 

Molly (mollified). It is a perfect beauty. Will 
you excuse me just a minute, Mr. Smith ? You see, I 
haven't any maid, just a woman who comes in. While 
I am out in the kitchen, why don't you go and get your 
bag? 

Charles Augustus. My, but it's a businesslike 
little lady ! Did Bob tell you what was in my bag? 

Molly. No; why should he? 

Charles Augustus. Not a reason in the world ex- 
cept that Bob's a queer fellow — a very queer fellow — 
and I never can tell what he will say or do. 



10 IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 

Molly. Why — how funny! That's exactly what 
he says about you. 

Charles Augustus. The deuce he does! Well, 
I'll go get my bag and we'll see what's in it ! 

{Exit.) 

Molly {surveys the rug by the fire admiringly). 
I'm glad Mr. Smith's taste in rugs is better than Bob's 
father's taste in college chums. Horrid thing! But 
Bob's not to blame. It's years since he's seen much of 
Mr. Smith. {Looks at the clock on the mantel.) 
Three o'clock! Bob certainly won't be here before 
five. Well, I'll do my best. {Exit. Enter Charles 
Augustus, carrying a vacuum cleaner in a brown 
denim case. Surveys the empty room, smiling unctu- 
ously, unwraps the vacuum cleaner, attaches it to a 
light, and starts it on the oriental rug by the fireplace. 
Enter Molly, running.) Oh, it's you ! I was fright- 
ened to death when I heard that noise. Oh, please 
don't try it on that rug! Why, I always brush that 
myself ; I'm so afraid something will happen to it. 

Charles Augustus {crooks his knee and szvitches 
vacuum brush to his trouser leg). Calm yourself, 
little one! With clothes skied where they are and 
moving up, would I take a chance on my only suit ? 

Molly. According to Bob, you could take the 
chance a whole lot better than most people, Mr. Smith. 

Charles Augustus. That shows how little Bob 
knows about the way the war knocked the top off the 
vacuum cleaner business. 

Molly. I don't think Bob knows what business you 
are in now, Mr. Smith. 

Charles Augustus. He don't ! I'm surprised ! I 
thought Bob knew all about me. 

Molly. Well, in a way, of course, he does. But he 
naturally talks to me most about the things he cares 
most about. He's always telling about that summer 
you spent together in Wyoming — or was it Colorado? 
Were you as crazy about sheep herding as he was ? 



IS YOUR NAME SMITH T II 

Charles Augustus. Well — that is — yes, It pretty 
nearly made me crazy. 

Molly. Now, that's just how it seemed to me ! 
There was such a lot of burned bacon and tin cans in 
Bob's stories, and the sheep got up and baa'd so early 
in the morning. What time was it they used to begin ? 

Charles Augustus. Well, now, let me see — was it 
standard time or daylight saving? Well, it must have 
been daylight saving, because I remember we used to 
throw tin cans at them, hoping they'd drop oif again. 

Molly. That's something Bob never told me. Did 
they eat the cans ? 

Charles Augustus. Well, really I can't say. I 
suppose so. They say goats do. 

Molly. Did you ever try it again? 

Charles Augustus. Try what? 

Molly. Why, sheep herding, of course. 

Charles Avgvstvs (patronizingly). Do I look like 
a sheep herder? 

Molly. Why, of course not, because you're selling 
vacuum cleaners now. You don't look like a Moham- 
medan fakir either. 

Charles Augustus. Why on earth should I? I 
never even saw one. 

Molly. Oh, were you the only one around when 
you did that? 

Charles Augustus. Wh — yes — you bet I was ! I 
always take pains to be the only one around, when I 
can, especially (Bell rings violently.) 

Molly. Oh, dear! It's probably some one from 
that committee. I haven't 'phoned them. Excuse me 
one moment, please, Mr. Smith. 

(Opens door. Enter Sadie Pulaski.) 

Sadie. Marie, vat is my cousine, she can't come — 
she say you take me this day. I no find back stair. 

Molly. Oh, that's all right, but I especially need 
Marie to-day! (Lowers her voice.) I've got com- 
pany for dinner. What's the matter with Marie ? 

Sadie. Marie, she go to one wedding. 



12 IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 

Molly (in consternation). You don't mean she's 
being married to-day? 

Sadie. Oh, no! She go dance at her cousine's 
wedding. 

Molly. Oh, how annoying ! Couldn't you — what's 
your name ? 

Sadie. Sadie Pulaski. 

Molly. Well, Sadie, I'll pay you the same as if 
you worked here if you'll go find Marie. Tell her I 
need her awfully to-day. Then you bring her back 
here and get your money. 

Sadie. No, sir, I work here, get de money. I no 
like weddings. Dey dance. Too much hurry up — 
too much hug. I get my money here. 

Molly. Can you cook? 

Sadie (shrugs). I can do some. 

Molly. Are you a trained waitress? 

Sadie. Wot you say ? 

Molly (glancing desperately at Smith). Of 
course, you aren't. Well, go out to the kitchen and 
take your things off — you might finish washing the 
luncheon dishes, and then I'll come and show you what 
to do next. 

Sadie. Aw right, ma'am. 

(Exit.) 

Molly (trying to be cheerful). Don't worry 
about your dinner, Mr. Smith. She can't cook, I'm 
sure, but I can. At least Bob thinks so. 

Charles Augustus. And as for the trained wait- 
ress part of it, we can do our own stretching. Those 
cheap-boarding-house methods are getting to be fash- 
ionable in the best society nowadays, I'm told. 

(Sound of crashing china outside.) 

Molly. Oh, dear! (Runs out.) 
Charles Augustus (who has risen at her exit, 
sinks into a chair exhausted — improvises). 

To stay or not to stay, that is the question. 
Whether 'tis better on the whole to sell her 



IS YOUR NAME SMITH? fl^ 

A sweeper vac. to clean her pretty nest with, 
Or to keep up the mystery she's woven 
And by departing save it 

(Enter Molly.) 

Charles Augustus. Was the damage heavy ? 

Molly. All the dishes we used for luncheon. She 
knocked the trayful oif the table before she'd even 
started to wash them. I wanted to tell her to go, but 
she was crying as it was, so I didn't say anything. 
(Sound of running water outside, then a scream.) 
Now what? (Rushes out again.) 

Charles Augustus. Looks to me as if it would be 
safer for us all to retreat. That girl is liable to throw 
a bomb. 

Molly (outside). But I don't see why you turned 
the water on to wash dishes, when the dishes were all 
broken to begin with. Well, there's nothing to do now 
but let it run until the plumber comes. I'll telephone 
him at once. (Enter Molly.) She turned the hot 
water faucet on so hard that she pulled the top off, and 
it's running streams. I only hope it doesn't overflow 
the sink before I can get a plumber here. Such an 
afternoon ! Oh, Mr. Smith, you don't know how sorry 
I am! Bob will be furious when he hears about it. 
(Considts directory.) P-1 — oh, it won't be there! I 
don't know the name of any plumber in this town ! 

Charles Augustus. Ask Information; she'll help 
you out. (Molly picks up receiver.) Better yet — 
look under Smith. It's a common name, you know, 
and I've noticed that lots of them run to plumbing. 

Molly (drops receiver and consults hook again). 
Oh, dear, they're all just plain street and number. No, 
here's G. S. Smith, wall paper and paint. I could ask 
him. Oh, there's a Joe Smith in hardware — he's prob- 
ably a plumber, too. (Wail from kitchen.) Oh, Mr. 
Smith, would you 'phone him? Tell him to come 
quick ! 

Charles Augustus. Sure, I'll *phone him for you. 
(Exit Molly.) Four- four Highland. Right oh! 



14 IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 

Hello ! Hello ! That you, Joe Smith ? The sweetest 
little lady in the world is in a peck of trouble over a 
busted water-tap and wants you to — oh, well, man, 
we'll drown if you don't! Ellis? We've tried him; 
he's gone to his grandmother's funeral or something of 
the sort. Gosh, no ! Smith's the name. Have a 
heart, man, and a little family feeling. Right around 
the corner — Apartment C, the Kennington. You have 
a blanket contract with the owner to keep the place in 
repair ? Well, hop to it, man, and save yourself a peck 
of trouble. Pails? Sure, we'll fix some up. Turn 
off the water? Well, I never did, but I'll make the 
effort. So long, Brother Smith. {Hangs up receiver. 
Reaches for vacuum cleaner, puts it in case, opens door 
and deposits it in hall.) Here's your exit cue, C. A. 
(Calls.) Mrs. Evans! Mrs. Evans! One minute, 
please ! 

(Enter Molly in long apron, wet cloth in her hand.) 

Molly. That girl was having hysterics. And now 
the sink's full, and I'm fixing pails to catch the over- 
flow. 

Charles Augustus. Good for you, little girl ! The 
plumber's advice to a dot ! But he also suggests turn- 
ing off the water in the basement — with a thing called a 
monkey-wrench. Got any such animal? 

yioiA^Y (considers). Oh, I know. (Darts off.) 

Charles Augustus (looks at water). Delay is 
dangerous, but one must play fair with the little lady. 

(Enter Molly.) 

Molly. Here! Do you know how it works? I 
haven't an idea, but men generally 

Charles Augustus (grabbing it). Sure, I know. 
No time to lose. Count on me, little one. 

Molly. I'm so sorry to trouble you. 

Charles Augustus. Don't mention it. Delighted, 
I'm sure. Easier than many other things you might 
have asked of me. 



IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 15 

{Exit, almost knocking down Joe Smith, plumber, in 
the door.) 

Joe Smith {hig and calm and comforting, hut on the, 
job). Well, where's your break, ma'am? 

Molly. Wh-wh-at, are you here already? I can't 
see how you did it. I've got the pails fixed and found 
the monkey-wrench, and Mr. Smith has just gone 
down 

(Joe Smith strides silently hack to kitchen.) 

Joe Smith {reenters). Well! You empty them 
pails, Mrs. Smith, and I'll go and turn off the water and 
tell your husband what I think of his strong-arm tactics 
on that tap. 

Molly. Wait! Wait, Mr. Smith. He isn't my 
husband, and he didn't break the faucet, and he went 
out the other way. 

Joe Smith {sticks head in center hack door). Ain't 
y'r husband down turnin' off the water ? 

Molly. No — yes. That is, Mr. Smith isn't my 
husband. He's a friend of my husband. At least, I 
think so. I'm Mrs. Evans — Mrs. Robert Evans. 

Joe Smith {calm hut decisive). Your friend Smith 
is a — a Where is that wrench ? 

Molly. I told you Mr. Smith took it. He went out 
the hall door, down to the basement, I suppose. 

Joe Smith. Thanks, ma'am. {Vanishes.) 

{Enter Sadie.) 

Sadie. The water he stop to go. 

Molly. Thank goodness. Of course Mr. Smith 
would know how to stop it ! A man who's done all 
kinds of things all over the world would know all about 
turning off water in a cellar. Poor man ! He must be 
quite worn out. I wonder if he likes tea. Sadie, put 
on some water to boil — just a little in the bottom of the 
kettle. I want tea right away quick. And toast some 
bread. Cut it thin, and butter it. You understand ? 

Sadie. Yes sir I go do. 

{Exit Sadie.) 



l6 IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 

(Molly sinks down in a chair wearily, but in a minute 
is erect again.) 

Molly. I'd forgotten dinner! That girl can peel 
potatoes, and the rest will have to wait till Bob comes. 
If we have tea, dinner can be late. Oh, dear, I must 
telephone Ethel why I cut the committee meeting! 
(Moves to 'phone.) I do not see how that plumber 
got here so soon. They never do. 

(Joe Smith's head in door.) 

Joe Smith (meaningly). If you know where your 
husband is (Molly jumps up anxiously) , you'd better 
go and tell him to return the monkey-wrench. The 
water's off. He ain't to be seen in the basement. 

(Faint tune from street organ heard outside.) 

Molly. How many times must I tell you, Mr. 
Smith, that Mr. Smith — oh, dear, the one that took the 
monkey-wrench and went to turn off the water — isn't 
my husband ? He's a friend of my husband, who hap- 
pens to be visiting us. (Looks around and suddenly 
misses the vacuum cleaner.) Why, how funny, the 
vacuum cleaner is gone too ! Did you take the vacuum 
cleaner, Mr. Smith? 

Joe Smith (thunderously). No, ma'am! I came 
to mend a faucet. (Disappears.) 

Molly. Sadie! (Enter Sadie.) Sadie, did you 
take a vacuum cleaner that was standing here on the 
floor? 

Sadie. Wot, ma'am? No, I take nuthin' at all. 
The water he boil, ma'am. 

Molly. Sadie, you must have put that vacuum 
cleaner somewhere. You know what I mean. Not 
take away — not steal — put in closet to make the room 
look neat. 

Sadie (sulkily). I no steal ; I no take ; I no tidy up. 
You tell me wash dishes — I break, so I not wash. You 
tell me to boil water; he boil. (Flounces out.) That's 
all I do. 

(Exit.) 



IS YOUR NAME SMITH? VJ 

Molly {goes out through door, comes back, looks 
behind couch, opens hall door, looks out there). It 
isn't here and he never brought in his bag, and the 
car — {goes to window) yes, the car's gone. {Opens 
hall door once more, comes back zmth zvrench.) He 
never went to the basement. He never tried to turn 
off the v^ater. Either he's gone off mad, as Bob said 
he vi^ould do if things didn't go right, or he isn't Bob's 
Mr. Smith. Oh, I hope he wasn't ! I didn't like him 
at all. I declare, as I think it over, I believe he wasn't 
the right one! {Bell rings. Molly snatches off 
apron, throws it through the door, answers bell. Enter 
Miss Jones-Smith.) Goo-good-afternoon, Mrs. 

Miss Jones-Smith {deep bass voice). Miss Jones- 
Smith. Lovely day, isn't it ? 

Molly. Is it? I hadn't noticed. Fve been in all 
the afternoon 

Miss Jones- Smith {smiling). Working hard to 
keep your little nest cozy and attractive ? 

MoLhY {snap pily). Not exactly. {Has a thought, - 
sweetly. ) Did you say your name was Smith ? 

Miss Jones-Smith. Jones-hyphenated-Smith. 

Molly. Oh ! {Sits forward and looks at her vis- 
itor keenly.) Did you have a pleasant voyage, Miss 
Jones-Smith ? 

Miss Jones-Smith {taken aback). Pleasant voy- 
age ! Yes, very, after the first day out. {Pompously.) 
It's a great relief to have the war over. I've missed 
my Europe so lately ! Are you crossing this summer ? 

Molly. Oh, no, we can't do things like that yet. 
You see Bob has three weeks' vacation, but he has 
taken a week already, when we were — well, last month 
he took a week. 

Miss Jones-Smith. Don't mind me, dear! You 
couldn't hide it if you tried. Newly-wed is written in 
capital letters all over this place. Have you seen Miss 
Ethel Hastings lately ? 

(Molly starts in her turn.) 
Molly. No! There, I've forgotten again to tele- 



l8 IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 

phone! I had a committee meeting at her house to- 
day, Miss Jones-Smith, and I couldn't get there. 

Miss Jones-Smith. I thought perhaps it was she 
who told you about me. 

Molly {blankly). No, Bob told me that you had 

been abroad. That is, I didn't mean — I'm not sure 

By the way. Miss Jones-Smith, did you see anything of 
a man in an automobile, with a vacuum cleaner, when 
you came in here ? 

Miss Jones-Smith. You mean Charlie Smith? 
The one they call the '' Vac Prince " ? Yes, I saw 
Charlie. Fact is, he brought me up here from the sta- 
tion. Is Charlie a friend of yours, Mrs. Evans ? 

Molly. I've merely met him. Has Mr. Smith been 
in the vacuum cleaner business long ? 

Miss Jones-Smith. He claims to have cut his teeth 
on a carpet-sweeper, I believe. 

Molly. What? 

Miss Jones-Smith. Oh, that's just Charlie's play- 
ful little way of saying that he's grown up with the 
business. Did he, perhaps, sell you something you 
didn't want ? 

Molly. No, oh, no! He — I — mistook him for — 
quite another person. 

Miss Jones-Smith {slightly embarrassed). An ac- 
quaintance — I see. Charlie'd play up. I hope you 
haven't mistaken me for that, Mrs. Evans, because I 
spoke as I did of Miss Hastings. She told me of you, 
as being another educated beauty-lover like herself. 
Business brings me here — but I cannot separate busi- 
ness from pleasure in my life. Business takes me to 
Europe, business brings me to dear little homes like 
this. I'm thought of in many homes, Mrs. Evans, as 
the giver of the best thing in the house. 

Molly {glancing at rug). Rugs, you mean, Miss 
Jones-Smith? {Playfully.) Did you ever give two 
beautiful rugs to people in a " dear little home " like 
this? 

Miss Jones-Smith {also playfully). Did I? Thafs 
telling, my dear! {Opens bead-bag, produces beauti- 



IS YOUR NAME SMITH? I9 

ful blue levant " table-book." Gets up, lays book on 
Molly's center table.) There! Isn't it the crowning 
touch? (Pulls up skirt, opens black sateen bag, pro- 
duces a set of books in skeleton, sets them up on the 
mantel-shelf over fireplace.) Books' every where! Cul- 
ture, intelHgence, comfort ! 

{Stands before the fire imitating a tired man smoking 
a cigarette, picks out a book, dfops into a chair in 
lounging attitude, and pretends to be immersed in the 
story. ) 

Molly {aside). Oh, dear! Because I was too 
easily fooled before, I mustn't be too sure this time — 
either way. {Happy thought.) You must have missed 
books dreadfully that simimer you were herding sheep. 

Miss Jones-Smith {emerging dramatically from the 
lure of the tale). Yes, little wilie, so I did ! And I've 
enjoyed them all the more since, particularly tales of 
the far places of the East, like this volume of Kipling. 

Molly. Oh, were you ever a Mohammedan fakir? 

Miss Jones-Smith {smiling). You enter wonder- 
fully into the spirit of play, child. You grasp allusions 
and reply in kind. You must be a great joy to your 
evidently versatile young husband. Now to business — 
which clinches pleasure. Which shall it be ? A touch 
of richness and of color, a gleam of poetry, beautifully 
garbed, for the table, or Kipling, Stevenson, Dickens, 
Shakespeare, to dream over by the fire ? 

Molly {completely baffled). Oh — but you must 
choose your own gift for us. Miss Jones-Smith. And 
really you ought not to give us anything else, after 
those lovely rugs. 

Miss Jones-Smith {playing safe). Don't mention 
them, my dear ! 

Molly {almost convinced). Oh, I know! We'll 
let Bob choose, of course ! 

Miss Jones-Smith {vague again). Bob? 

Molly. Don't you call him that ? 

Miss Jones-Smith {still more vague) . Sometimes. 



20 IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 

(Creates a diversion.) Don't I smell something burn- 
ing? Is there a pie or a cake, perhaps, cooking for 
Bob? 

Molly (sniffing). What has that girl done now? 
Excuse me a minute, please. (Exit — voice heard out- 
side. ) I should think something was burning ! Why, 
Sadie, what do you mean by cooking the teakettle? 

Sadie. I tell you long time back, water he boil. 
Den he boil off. Den de kettle she cook. You tell me 
do so. Toast also I have made. 

Molly. I forgot all about tea, Sadie. Never mind, 
it's my fault, not yours. Whatever you do, don't cry. 
Throw away the toast — or eat it ! And put on potatoes 
to boil for dinner — plenty for four. (In door.) You 
know how ? 

Sadie. I tink so ! 

Miss Jones-Smith (who has collected her property, 
and has it in a pile on the table). I'm afraid I've 
chosen a bad day for my visit. You might just talk 
things over with Boh and — shall I drop in to-morrow? 

Molly. Oh, but — Bob expects — he's expecting a 
friend to-night — an old friend, who's done a lot for 
him. 

Miss Jones-Smith (who has a heart). That settles 
it, my dear! I'm off. That Polander, or Swede, or 
whatever she is, that can't boil water and is uncertain 
about her ability to boil potatoes, needs your guiding 
hand, I'm sure. 

Molly. Oh, thank you! I can't tell you how 
grateful I am ! 

Miss Jones-Smith (scathingly). Don't speed the 
parting guest too hard, my dear ! Good-bye. 

(Exit.) 

Molly. Why didn't I ask her right out in the first 
place? Of course Bob's friend wouldn't masquerade 
in petticoats. I'm nervous! Well, who wouldn't be 
when Bob's so anxious to have things go just right? 
(Organ heard again outside; Molly pirouettes to the 
tune.) They've gone just wrong so far. A bad be- 



IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 21 

ginning — here's hoping for a good ending. {Dances 
again.) How I love street organs ! {Goes to window, 
throws out some change.) There's a monkey! Just 
my luck to have a monkey come along on my busiest 
day. Oh, he's climbing up! I can't resist that. 
{Runs for more change. Monkey climbs in, or is lifted 
in, and stands on sill. ) You comical, weird little thing ! 
Here ! {Hands him a penny. Enter Joe Smith, with 
his tools. Molly does not hear him.) I'd like to pick 
you up. 

Joe Smith. You'd better not, ma'am. They often 
bite. 

Molly {jumps). Goodness ! I thought you'd gone 
long ago. 

Joe Smith, So I did — to the shop to get a new tap. 
Your strong-armed Polack stripped the screw right off 
the old one. {Sees wrench on table.) Hello, where'd 
that come from ? 

Molly. I — found it — in the hall. I suppose after 
you turned the water off — he — Mr. Smith — oh, it was 
all just a grand mix-up. I can't explain. {Organ be- 
gins again and monkey retreats — or is lifted down.) 
There now, he's gone — I don't believe he bites ! 

Joe Smith {severely). You the wife of young 
Robert Evans? 

Molly. Why, y-y-es. Why do you ask, Mr. — er — 
Smith ? 

Joe Smith. Wanted to know, thaf s all. Goo'day, 
ma'am. 

Molly {resolved on direct action, having found it 
worked well). Oh, Mr. Smith, are you a friend of my 
husband ? 

Joe Smith {meaningly) . I'm a friend of anybody 
that needs a friend, ma'am. Does he ? 

Molly {in despair). Oh, dear! You — you were 
awfully quick getting here and getting the water turned 
off, Mr. Smith. You came before I thought you pos- 
sibly could. I'm ever so much obliged. 

Joe Smith. Next time don't say your name is 
Smith. It ain't business. 



22 IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 

Molly. I didn't. I said your name was Smith. 
Isn't it? 

Joe Smith. Has been since a man by that name 
adopted me when I was six. I was born Washington. 

Molly {resolved). Did you ever herd sheep? 

Joe Smith. I came here to mend a tap, not to dis- 
cuss my past, ma'am. Good-day. 

Molly. G-good-day. Thank you. I'm sorry if I 
asked too many questions. {Exit plumber.) Oh ! It's 
been a horrid afternoon ! Probably he's the one ! 
{Organ again.) I don't care. I don't care about the 
potatoes or the dinner — I'm going to play with that 
monkey, so now ! Bob might have stayed and picked 
out his own old friend! {Hangs out of window.) 
Oh, please won't you send the monkey up again ? Will 
he bite if I take hold of him? 

Michael Angelo Romano {below; off stage). I 
tink so not. He's a nice kind little monkey. You lak 
him too ? 

Molly. Yes. Will he eat candy? 

Michael Angelo. You bet ! 

{Monkey appears on sill.) 

Molly. What's his name? 
Michael Angelo. Name of Michael. 
Molly. Here, Michael. 

{Gives him penny and candy,) 

{Enter Sadie.) 

Sadie. Potato all boil to bits. 

{Sees monkey, screams, and retreats.) 

Molly {candy box in hand, goes to door to kitchen), 
Sadie, you mustn't cry and scream so much ! (Sadie, 
when door is opened, indulges in an orgy of the forbid- 
den screams.) Go out on the fire escape, Sadie, and 
shut the door after you quick, and keep quiet. {To 
monkey.) Don't mind her, Michael. Here's more 



IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 23 

candy and another penny because you paid up Sadie 
good and plenty for breaking my lovely dishes and 
ruining my bright new kettle. Here! {Feeds mon- 
key.) You'd better pull him back now, Mister Organ 
Man. 

Michael Angelo. That I cannot! The rope has 
part company. {Calls.) Michael! Michael! {Ex~ 
asperated.) Mike, I say, come down! 

(Molly pokes monkey, hut he sticks on sill.) 

Molly. Fm afraid you'll have to come up and get 
him. 

Michael Angelo. A'right. But I cannot make it 
by the window, alas ! I go up by the stairs. 

Molly {to monkey). You nice little thing! I'm 
glad you wanted to stay with me. I'd like to keep you 
for a pet. {Knock, enter organ man, with low how. 
Picks up monkey, whose chain has heen held hy some 
one off stage, and tucks him under his arm.) Oh, how 
do you do ! I'm awfully glad to see you ! I adore 
hand-organs just as much as I did when I was a little 
girl. Silly, isn't it? What a nice old one you have 
got, with those comical little pictures on it ! And how 
lucky you are to have a monkey! So many organs 
nowadays don't have them. 

Michael Angelo. Cake without frosting ! 

Molly. Worse than that, apple pie without cheese I 
Did you bring him from Italy? You're Italian, aren't 
you? 

{Organ man hows low again.) 

Michael Angelo. Michael Angelo Romano, at 
your service. What you think, lady, Roma — Napoli — 
Sicily — where ? 

Molly. I don't know one kind of Italian from an- 
other. Tell me, was it Roma — Napoli — Sicily ? 

Michael Angelo {pulls off cap to which strands of 
dark hair are fastened, disclosing an ohviously un- 



24 IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 

Italian poll). It was Columbus, Ohio, lady, but you 
see, to go with the monkey and the organ, one has to 
talk some sort of Dago, and look the part. 

Molly. How funny ! Are many organ men made 
up like you? 

Michael Angelo. Couldn't say, I'm sure. Never 
spoke to but one in my life and he was the gtnu-ine 
article, all right, I guess. I wasn't wise to a word he 
was jabbering, but Michael here went nuts on it. Still, 
Michael never saw Italy either, until I took him there 
two years back. 

Molly. Then your real name isn't Michael Angelo 
Romano, I suppose, and the monkey isn't named after 
you. 

Michael Angelo. Sure thing not, ma'am. My 
name's Jim Smith. I bought Michael at the Denver 
Zoo, when he was three months old. He's Michael, 
straight enough. I named him that because monkeys 
alway-s seem to me about half Eytalian and half Irish. 
The crazy part of 'em is Eytalian, and the funny part, 
that's partly sad too, is the Irish. When Michael's 
funny I call him Mike. Don't he look like he was 
mourning the sorrows of old Erin this minute, and yet 
he makes you smile too? 

Molly. Which one do you like best — Michael or 
Mike? (Suddenly remembers something.) Did you 
say your name was Smith? (Aside.) Did he say 
John or Jim? Did Bob say John or Jim? He always 
calls his friend Smith. Oh, dear ! 

Michael Angelo (who has been adjusting the or- 
gan and monkey). I sure did, ma'am, and I meant it. 
And I sure like Mike best. Dagoes is just crazy per- 
sons to me, but I love the Irish for the wit they have on 
a rainy day. 

Molly. You said you were in Denver. Did you 
ever herd sheep in Wyoming ? 

Michael Angelo (chuckles). Once, for two days. 
Speaking of crazy persons, sheep is sure that. Are 
you a westerner, ma'am? 

Molly. No, oh no ! But my husband has lived 



IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 2$ 

west a little. He was out there once with a man named 
Smith. 

Michael Angelo. They're average common there, 
same as here. I had an awfully nice kid with me that 
trip when I bought Michael. (Molly starts visibly.) 
We have come a long ways together since then, haven't 
we, Mike? And we'd better be going along on our 
road, ma'am, instead of loitering around here, taking 
your time and wasting an hour of our own daylight. 

Molly (plunging) . Where are you planning to stay 
to-night ? Do hotels take in monkeys ? 

Michael Angelo. No — I don't suppose they do, 
lady, but you see I make a lot of friends in this world 
as I go along, and Mike's the same. Where will we 
stay to-night? Oh, we'll just push on till dark, and 
then we'll look around and see where we are and act 
accordin'. (Adjusts cap and shortens monkey's cord. 
Looks around the room.) Nice little place you've got 
here, ma'am. (Looks at floor.) Nice rugs. I've 
seen them things made. Ever been out in the real 
East, ma'am ? 

Molly. No, I have never been anywhere, much. 
Won't you sit down ? My husband will be home soon 
now. He'll like to talk to you about — about the sheep 
herding and the Syrian rug makers. He thinks I'm 
silly about monkeys and hand-organs, but he's just ex- 
actly as silly about the summer he herded sheep in 
Wyoming with his friend Mr. Smith. Do sit down ! 

Michael Angelo (looks at his shabby shoes and 
dusty clothes). I'm not much to sit down in a room 
like this, lady. You mean it? (Molly nods.) Not 
many like you would — I don't blame 'em either — not in 
my case. I ought to be in better business. (Sits down.) 

Molly. It's interesting doing a lot of different 
things, isn't it? 

Michael Angelo. Yes, lady, it is. When I talk 
to some fat, prosperous, prominent citizen who thinks 
he knows it all, and his townsfolk think so too — and I 
find he don't know much of anything and has seen and 
done and felt still less, then I'm glad I came from a 



26 IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 

Stock of rolling stones. They called my father that: 
Rolling Stone Smith, and my grandfather they called 
Vagabond Smith. Oh, it's in the blood — we're all born 
wanderers. 

Molly (sighs). I think I should like to be a wan- 
derer — in the spring anyhow, 

Michael Angelo. Now you've said it, ma'am! 
Youth and spring and the open road. Well, my grand- 
dad settled down at fifty and my father did the same 
and each made a comfortable fortune. I've heard my 
brother has come home and broken into business — and 
gone our dad and our granddad one better. 

Molly. And will you try to go him one better ? 

Michael Angelo. I don't know — I can't tell. I 
could never love money, but it's useful — very useful. 
I've often wished, running around as I have among 
those who haven't got it, that I had more to give. 
Small things make the poor so happy. 

(Gestures unconsciously at the rug.) 

Molly (perfectly sure she has caught her fish). 
Like that little rug — oh, but that's not really a little 
thing, Mr. Smith ! It's a very valuable thing. 

Michael Angelo. A rich man would ignore its 
beauty, because he could buy the old masterpiece from 
which it's copied. Besides — yes, it's been torn and 
mended. See ? 

Molly (stoutly). I never noticed! I don't care 
either. I like it better that way. 

Michael Angelo. The price of that little torn rug 
often means life or death to a poor man. Yes, I sup- 
pose, when I haven't the wanderlust to fill my soul with 
joy, I must go at the regular job of money-grubbing. 
I fancy I share the family talent. I've bought a few 
odd lots in my travels that looked to me to be good 
bargains. A field in Oklahoma, for instance, and a 
hillside in Wyoming — oil and silver. I must go and 
look at my belongings again with the eye of a money- 
grubber. Perhaps one of them will settle the difficult 
question of where I'm to live, now that I'm to live 



27 

in one place. Respectability — money-grubbing — that 
means traveling by trains. What do you say, Michael ? 
I can't take you along. Shall I give you to another 
knight of the road — you and the organ — or shall it be a 
short life and a merry one for you, and so no risk of a 

bad master ? Or shall I 

Molly. Oh, let me keep him — please let me — if 

Bob {Key rattles in lock.) Here's Bob now. 

He'll be so glad to see you! {Enter Bob.) Oh, Bob, 
see what I've 



Bob. Hello, little girl. See what I've 

Together. Got for you ! 

(Bob stares at the organ grinder with the American 
head, at the organ and the monkey. Molly is fas- 
cinated by the sleek, well-groomed gentleman behind 
Bob, who, in his turn, is fascinated by Molly.) 

Molly. Bob, this is Mr. Smith — Mr. James Smith. 
Oh, Bob, did you say James or John ? Well, if he isn't 
the right one, he's certainly his double. He's done all 
the proper things. 

Bob. Glad to know you, Mr. Smith. But here's the 
Mr. Smith, Molly. Smith, this is my wife. He came 
to the office, Molly — pretends, he was afraid to face you 
alone. 

Molly {shaking hands). How absurd! But I 
thought you said — I've been entertaining probably 
Smiths all the afternoon, Mr. Smith, because Bob said 
you might be anyone who came — I mean anyone who 
came here might be you, no matter how queer they 
looked nor what they did for — a — a — living. 

John Smith. Not now, Mrs. Molly, not now. 
I'm not " Off Again Smith " any longer. A man can't 
spend his whole life getting facts to live by — not if he's 
a real man. We Smiths all aim to be that. My ad- 
ventures are over now. {To Michael Angelo.) I've 
often thought of trying a street organ, but I'm no hand 
at picking up a foreign lingo — or a foreign manner. I 
tried one such stunt, but I had to pull it off without 



2S IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 

talking — that was dull. I could understand the other 
fellows all right, but I couldn't talk back. Now, my 
brother Jim, when he was twenty, he claimed to talk 
fourteen languages and dialects. Got a job in the con- 
sular service on his languages. 

Michael Angelo. Did he make good there — your 
brother Jim ? 

John Smith. He quit — just vamoosed one day into 
thin air. You see, sir, I belong to a family of vaga- 
bonds. They called my granddad " Vagabond Smith " 
and my father was " Rolling Stone " and I was " Off 
Again Smith." They both settled down at last, and so 
have I. I've tried to trace Jim — two brothers ought 
not to lose sight of one another. Jim always claimed 
he hated the vagabond strain — he took after my mother. 
She was an Adams of Beacon Hill. But somehow I 
think it got him in the end. He quit his job and disap- 
peared the year she died. 

Molly {too full of all her mistakes to he sure of 
anything). Mr. John Smith, please look hard at Mr. 
Jim Smith. He belongs to a vagabond tribe of Smiths 
too. He told me so. 

Michael Angelo. I haven't gone around blabbing 
about it, Johnny. She — well, she's different herself; 
she likes monkeys. And she don't shy at old clothes 
and broken shoes. So I talked to her. 

John Smith. I say — are you — you are! Jim! My 
kid brother Jim I {To Molly.) You thought he was 
Bob's old friend? You weren't so far wrong either — 
blood tells, especially in our end of the Smith family. 
And so you like monkeys, do you, Mrs. Molly, and ad- 
venture, and don't mind old clothes and broken shoes ? 
Very few women are like that. Very few are the kind 
a stranger can walk in on and sit down and feel at 
home with, — fewer even than men. I needn't have 
tracked Bob down, and spent an hour in the company 
of a dumb office-boy, waiting for Bob to be through 
with his day's work. May I ask, ma'am, you weren't, 
by any chance, born a Smith? My, Jim, seems like a 
miracle — her keeping you here for me ! 



IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 29 

Molly. No. But I had a great-grandmother 
Smith. 

Bob. Don't forget that you also went to Smith Col- 
lege, young lady. I've told Smith about the committee 
meeting you missed on his account. 

Molly. Oh, Bob, you shouldn't have done that! 
It didn't matter. 

Bob (to the Smiths). Isn't that just like a woman? 
Hates to have the subject of getting money mentioned. 
Loves to spend it. 

John Smith (shakes fingers warningly at Bob). 
See here, my boy, don't you say too much. You ain't 
a Smith, nor even the great-grandson of a Smith and 
a graduate of Smith College. I tried to educate you a 
bit Smith fashion, but you notice it took Mrs. Molly to 
find me Jim. 

{Bell rings. Bob opens door on Charles Augustus.) 

Bob. Good-evening. 

Charles Augustus. The same to you, sir, and 
many of 'em. Is the little lady — {sees Molly) oh, 
here she is ! All serene again ? No more fires or floods 
or domestic cataclysms? I decided, Mrs. — {consults 
his cuff ostentatiously) e-er — Evans, that I really 
couldn't leave town without an apology for desertin' 
you as I did, in a great crisis. You see, the fact is 
some piker was starting off with my car. I happened 
to see the skunk tuning her up and I ran down and 
nabbed him just in time. Then the inevitable de- 
tails ( Waves impressively. ) 

Molly {acidly sweet). You have great presence of 
mind, Mr. Smith. You didn't forget your sample 
vacuum cleaner. 

Charles Augustus. Business, Mrs. — e-er — {con- 
sults cuff again) Evans, just business, not to lose sight 
of — e-er — my daily bread. I hope you didn't worry 
about its sudden disappearance. 

Molly. I naturally wanted a chance to try it out, 
after all the time I'd wasted talking to you. 

Charles Augustus. Ain't she cutting ? You score, 



30 IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 

Mrs. Evans. I'll give you a day's use of that vac. or 
my name ain't Smith. 

John Smith. Is your name Smith? 

Charles Augustus. Smith has that honor. 

(Low bow.) 

John Smith. Then you deliver to this lady the best 
vacuum cleaner on the market and get my check. 
(Hands his card.) Understand? 

Charles Augustus. Now you're talking. I'll be 
round to-morrow at nine A. M. with the snappiest little 
vac. in the U. S. A. All attachments. No limit to 
what it can do. Satisfaction guaranteed. Try it out 
on the monkey. 

('Phone rings wildly. Molly answers.) 

Molly. Hello! Oh, good-evening, Mr. Smith. 
What? I thought you told Mr. Smith — the other one 
— that the landlord made repairs. Oh, well, perhaps 
Sadie is a little hard on things. You thought this 
afternoon that she was breaking up housekeeping? I 
don't understand. Oh, those dishes! Well, accidents 
will happen. I don't see why you call up to tell me 
disagreeable things about my maid — not my regular 
maid either. Your bill ? Why, send it to my husband 
of course. To-night? We're entertaining guests. 
Just a minute. (Hand over receiver.) Bob, the 
plumber wants to speak to you. 

Bob. What plumber? 

Molly. The one who fixed the faucet. Oh, I 
haven't told you about the flood we had this afternoon. 

Jim Smith. Flood of Smiths? 

Molly. No, this was an extra caused by the care- 
lessness of a non-Smith, Mr. Jim. Mr. Smith — that 
one (waves at Charles Augustus) got me a plumber. 

Charles Augustus. Named Smith. 

Bob. Well, what does he want of me to-night? 

Molly. His pay apparently. He says (Into 

* phone.) Just a minute, Mr. Smith. I'm explaining 
to my husband. No, not to Mr. Smith. Yes, he is 



IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 



31 



here, but that's no business of Do you prefer to 

speak to him? {Hand over receiver.) Suspicious, 
horrid old thing ! He insists, because you said we were 
Smiths, when you tried to make him hurry, that — 
that 

Jim Smith. It takes all kinds of people to spell the 
name Smith. 

Charles Augustus {loftily). Let me talk to him. 
{Strides to 'phone.) Hello, hello! That you. Smith? 
This is Charlie — Charlie Smith. Say, old top, don't 
you know a joke when it hits you in the bean? This 
one hit you in the pocketbook? That's good. How 
much does it stand you in? Business is business? 
Sure thing it is. {Suddenly serious.) To tell you the 
honest truth, old man, I'm awful afraid of water — 
always have been. When that pipe exploded, I had 
visions of drowning, and maybe I got a bit reckless. 
But honest to goodness, old top, what's a good name 
like Smith for if you don't trade on it when you get in 
a hole? Well, now do we part friends? You're o. k.. 
Smith. I'll tell the world so. Want to speak to Mr. — 
e-er {considts cuff) Evans? Sure, he'll send you a 
check. Four thirty-nine is the total, is it ? He'll send 
you a check in the morning, and if he don't I will. Just 
sold the little lady a vac, with all attachments. So 
long, John — Jim — Joe ! Thanks for the tip, old man. 
Sweet dreams! {Hangs up receiver and faces com- 
pany blandly.) Well, I guess I'll call it a day — some 
day at that, eh, little lady? Found your wrench all 
right, didn't you, Mrs. Evans? Then I guess we're 
even. Good-night, all! {Opens doors and careens 
into Miss Jones-Smith in the hallway.) I beg par- 
don. Why, hello, Kittie Smith ! 

{Exit.) 

Miss Jones-Smith {impressively). Jones-Smith, 
Charlie. 

John Smith {interested, to Bob). She's got two 
big tribes back of her. That's too much ! 

Miss Jones-Smith. Good-evening, Mrs. Evans. 



32 IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 

I find I'm leaving town sooner than I thought, and I 
couldn't bear to disappoint you about those books, so, 
as usual, I'm combining business with pleasure — turn- 
ing a little before-supper stroll into a call to learn if you 
and your dear husband have decided among all the 
treasures I offered you. 

Molly. I haven't even consulted my husband yet, 
Miss Jones-Smith. But really, we have so many things 
to buy just now, I think we'd better wait for the books. 
Next time you're in the neighborhood, perhaps 

John Smith. Did she have some real books, Mrs. 
Molly? 

Molly (nods). They were lovely, but- 

John Smith. Bring 'em around, then, and get a 
check. (Hands her his card.) 

Miss Jones-Shith. Oh, ttiank you ! How delight- 
ful ! Which shall it be, my dear ? Kipling or Steven- 
son or Shakespeare or dear Dickens for the shelves, or 
Keats — a flash of divinely blue levant for the table? 

John Smith. Bring 'em all, madam, if they're real 
books — but on one condition. The Smith family ought 
to be good enough backing for any woman. Drop that 
Jones. 

Miss Jones-Smith. Oh, but the hyphen is so re- 
fined! (Considers.) It's a big order — a record- 
breaker! I'll do it. You may expect the books in a 
week, dear Mrs. Evans — real treasures, every one 1 

(Exit.) 

Molly. Bob, please don't let him give us so many 
things ! 

John Smith. What's money for, my dear, to a real 
man, except to spend ? 

Jim Smith. This makes me wish I'd settled down 
sooner, Mrs. Evans. Anyhow, Mike and I are going 
to give you the day's catch — and here's wishing it were 
more — to buy you a wedding present. 

(Enter Sadie, hanging on to door, and eyeing Michael 
awesomely. ) 



IS YOUR NAME SMITH? 33 

John Smith. Another Smith, eh? 

Sadie. De potats dey all one mash. De water he 
all gone. De dinner I no see. I eat toast. I eat 
potats. Now you pay me. I go out — back way. 
{Michael wriggles. Sadie raises her voice to a 
scream.) That's all! 

{Exit) 



CURTAIN 



Unusuaiiy Good Eotertainmenis 

Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
Your Next Program 

GRADUATION DAY AT WOOD KILL SCHOOL. 

An Entertainment in Two Acts, by Ward Macauley. For six 
males and four females, with several minor parts. Time of 
playing, two hours. Modern costumes. Simple interior scenes: 
may be presented in a hall without scenery. The unusual com*; 
ibination of a real "entertainment," including music, recitations,' 
etc., with an interesting love story. The graduation exercises, 
include short speeches, recitations, songs, funny interruptions^ 
and a comical speech by a country school trustee. 

EXAMINATION DAY AT WOOD HILL SCHOOlie 

An Entertainment in One Act, by Ward Macauley. Eight maU; 
and six female characters, with minor parts. Plays one hour^ 
Scene, an easy interior, or may be given without scenery. Cos- 
tumes, modern. Miss Marks, the teacher, refuses to marry a 
trustee, who threatens to discharge her. The examination in- 
cludes recitations and songs, and brings out many funny answers 
to questions. At the close Robert Coleman, an old lover, claims 
the teacher. Very easy and very effective. 

BACK TO THE COUNTRY STORE. A Rural Enter- 
tainment in Three Acts, by Ward Macauley. For four male 
and five female characters, with some supers. Time, two hours. 
Two scenes, both easy interiors. Can be played effectively with- 
out scenery. Costumes, modern. All the principal parts are 
sure hits. Quigley Higginbotham, known as "Quig," a clerk in 
a country store, aspires to be a great author or singer and 
decides to try his fortunes in New York. The last scene is in 
Quig's home. He returns a failure but is offered a partnership 
in the country store,. He pops the question in the midst of a 
surprise party given in his honor. Easy to do and very funny. 

THE DISTRICT CONVENTION. A Farcical Sketch 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For eleven males and one 
female, or twelve males. Any number of other parts or super- 
numeraries may be added. Plays forty-five mintites. No special 
scenery is required, and the costumes and properties are all 
easy. The play shows an uproarious political nominating con-' 
vention. The climax comes when a woman's rights cham- 
pion, captures the convention. There is a great chance to bur- 
lesque modern politics and to work in local gags. Every 
part will make a hit. 

SI SLOCUM'S COUNTRY STORE. An Entertainmenl^ 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eleven male and five female 
characters with supernumeraries. Several parts may be doubled. 
Plays one hour. Interior scene, or may be played without set 
scenery. Costumes, modern. The rehearsal for an entertain- 
ment in the village church gives plenty of opportunity for 
specialty work, A very jolly entertainment of the sort adapted 
to almost any place or occasion. 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 



Unusually Good Entertainments 

Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
Your Next Program 

A SURPRISE PARTY AT BRINKLEY'S. An En- 
tertainment in One Scene, by Ward Macauley. Seven male and 
seven female characters. Interior scene, or may be given with- 
out scenery. Costumes, modern. Time, one hour. By the 
author of the popular successes, "Graduation Day at Wood Hill 
School," "Back to the Country Store," etc. The villagers have 
.planned a birthday surprise party for Mary Brinkley, recently 
graduated from college. They all join in jolly games, songs, 
conundrums, etc., and Mary becomes engaged, which surprises" 
the surprisers. The entertainment is a sure success. 

JONES VS. JINKS. A Mock Trial in One Act, by 
Edward Mumford. Fifteen male and six female characters, with 
supernumeraries if desired. May be played all male. Many of the 
parts (members of the jury, etc.) are small. Scene, a simple 
interior ; may be played without scenery. Costumes, modern. 
Time of playing, one hour. This mock trial has many novel 
features, unusual characters and quick action. Nearly every 
character has a funny entrance and laughable lines. There are 
many rich parts, and fast fun throughout. 

THE SIGHT-SEEING CAR. A Comedy Sketch in On« 
A-ct, by Ernest M. Gould. For seven males, two females, or 
may be all male. Parts may be doubled, with quick changes, so 
that four persons may play the sketch. Time, forty-five minutes. 
Simple street scene. Costumes, modern. The superintendent 
©f a sight-seeing automobile engages two men to run the 
machine. A Jew, a farmer, a fat lady and other humorous 
characters give them all kinds of trouble. This is a regular gat- 
ling-gun stream of rollicking repartee. 

THE CASE OF SMYTHE VS. SMITH. An Original 
Mock Trial in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eighteen males 
and two females, or may be all male. Plays about one hour. 
Scene, a county courtroom ; requires no scenery ; may be played 
in an ordinary hall. Costumes, modern. This entertainment is 
nearly perfect of its kind, and a sure success. It can be easily 
produced in any place or on any occasion, and provides almost 
■any number of good parts. 

THE OLD MAIDS' ASSOCIATION. A Farcical Enter- 
tainment in One Act, by Louise Latham Wilson. For thirteen 
females and one male. The male part may be played by a 
female, and the number of characters increased to twenty or 
more. Time, forty minutes. The play requires neither scenery 
nor properties, and very little in the way of costumes. Can 
easily be prepared in one or tw» rehearsals. 

BARGAIN DAY AT BLOOTifSTEIN'S. A Farcical 
Entertainment in One Act, by Edward Mumford. For five males 
and ten females, with supers. Interior scene. Costumes, mod- 
ern. Time, thirty minutes. The characters and the situations 
which arise from their endeavors to buy and sell make rapid-fire 
tun from start to finish. 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADEIPHIA 



Successful Plays for All Girls 

In Selecting Your Next Play Do Not Overlook This List 

YOUNG DOCTOR DEVINE. A Farce in Two Acts, 
by Mrs. E. J, H, Goodfellow. One of the most popular 
plays for girls. For nine female characters. Time in 
playing, thirty minutes. Scenery, ordinary interior. Mod- 
ern costumes. Girls in a boarding-school, learning that a 
young doctor is coming to vaccinate all the pupils, eagerly con- 
sult each other as to the manner of fascinating the physician. 
When the doctor appears upon the scene the pupils discover that 
the physician is a female practitioner. 

SISTER MASONS. A Burlesque in One Act, by Frank 
DuMONT. For eleven females. Time, thirty minutes. Costumes, 
fantastic gowns, or dominoes. Scene, interior. A grand expose 
of Masonry. Some women profess to learn the secrets of a 
Masonic lodge by hearing their husbands talk in their sleep, 
and they institute a similar organization. 

A COMMANDING POSITION. A Farcical Enter- 
tainment, by Amelia Sanford. For seven female char- 
acters and ten or more other ladies and children. Time, one 
hour. Costumes, modern. Scenes, easy interiors and one street 
scene. Marian Young gets tired living with her aunt. Miss 
Skinflint. She decides to "attain a commanding position." 
Marian tries hospital nursing, college settlement work and 
school teaching, but decides to go back to housework. 

HOW A WOMAN KEEPS A SECRET. A Comedy 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For ten female characters. 
Time, half an hour. Scene, an easy interior. Costumes, modern. 
Mabel Sweetly has just become engaged to Harold, but it's "the 
deepest kind of a secret." Before announcing it they must win 
the approval of Harold's uncle, now in Europe, or lose a possible 
ten thousand a year. At a tea Mabel meets her dearest friend. 
Maude sees Mabel has a secret, she coaxes and Mabel tells her. 
But Maude lets out the secret in a few minutes to another 
friend and so the secret travels. 

THE OXFORD AFFAIR. A Comedy in Three Acts, 
by Josephine H. Cobb and Jennie E. Paine. For eight female 
characters. Plays one hour and three-quarters. Scenes, inter- 
iors at a seaside hotel. Costumes, modern. The action of the 
play is located at a summer resort, Alice Graham, in order to 
chaperon herself, poses as a widow, and Miss Oxford first claims 
her as a sister-in-law, then denounces her. The onerous duties 
of Miss Oxford, who attempts to serve as chaperon to Miss 
Howe and Miss Ashtnn in the face of many obstacles, furnish 
an evening of rare enjoyment. 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



The Power of liIrary of congress (i 



■M 



Expression and efficiency go ha 

The power of clear and force iiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii"''"""'"'""'"'^ i^ 
dcnce and poise at all times— in ^ ^^p 906 ^l^ 0^_^.^ 
discussion, in society, in business. 

It is an invaluable asset to any man or woman. It can often 
be turned into money, but it is always a real joy. 

In learning to express thought, we learn to command 
thought itself, and thought is power. You can have thii 
power if you will 

Whoever has the power of clear expression is always sur^ 
of himself. 

The power of expression leads to: 

The ability to think "on your feet" 

Successful public speaking 

Effective recitals 

The mastery over other minds 

Social prominence 

Business success 

Efficiency m any undertaking 

Are these things worth while? 

They are all successfully taught at The National School of 
Elocution and Oratory, which during many years has de= 
veloped this power in hundreds of men and women. 

A catalogue giving full information as to how any of thes€ 
accomplishments may be attained will be sent free on request 

THE NATIONAL SCHOOL OF 
ELOCUTION AND ORATORY , 

17 14 De Lancey Street Philadelphia 



1 



